


Okay

by getoffmyhead



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Getting Together, M/M, Playoff Elimination, Worlds Decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 03:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18513457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmyhead/pseuds/getoffmyhead
Summary: Being eliminated always sucked. The only good thing about an early out was it gave Geno time to get ready for Worlds. He would just gather up Sid and go to Slovakia, where they could get spectacularly drunk and lick their wounds. Worlds couldn't fix everything, but it was always a good time.When Geno voiced his plan, he thought Sid would approve. He certainly didn't expect Sid to say, "I'm not going to Worlds."





	Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Ya'll know what's up. Pittsburgh got swept. Hockey's weird like that. But Worlds is around the corner, and I'm pretty stoked.

Team Russia called before Geno expected it. They must have been giddy about the playoffs situation. They hadn't come close to putting together their final rosters for Worlds, and suddenly, with Tampa and Pittsburgh both swept out of the first round, they had their pick of Russian players from the NHL. He'd heard they called Kucherov first. For that, he didn't answer the phone right away. 

When he called back, he briefly entertained the idea of fucking with them, hesitating, saying no and playing coy, but the reality was, he was looking forward to it. Anything to get him away for a while. Anything for more hockey, to go prove it wasn't _him_ that made the Penguins lose. 

He said yes to Worlds just three hours before he had to be at the arena for final press and locker room cleanout. It made it bearable to go, in a way. He felt like he was going to pick up his things to take to Worlds instead of picking them up to sit in storage for summer.

Walking into the arena felt strange. He felt detached from it. It brought him no joy. Frankly, it hadn't brought him much joy all year. Maybe that was part of the problem. He'd let himself get bogged down in a hard season full of injuries and misery, let everything get into his head. There had been so few moments he'd remembered to love it. 

Geno ducked the press at first. He caught a glimpse of a bunch of cameras in Sid's face through the cracked locker room door, and he couldn't do it. He skirted around the locker room to go find Dana and wish him a good summer. 

When he returned, he found himself incredibly lucky. The cameras were gone. He relaxed on his way into the locker room, expecting Sid to glare and chop at him for not talking, not helping him. 

Only, Sid wasn't there anymore. Geno walked in. Sid's bag was at his stall, impeccably packed by Dana. His sticks were there, leaning against the stall, but the man himself was missing. 

"Where's Sid?" he asked Jake, who still had red around his eyes. He'd been spoiled by his first year. Every year they didn't win it all would hit hard for him until he got used to it. 

"He, uh..." Jake shrugged. "He was just here."

Geno frowned and looked around like perhaps he'd missed him. Nothing. He saw only the handful of players picking up their bags and chatting quietly. He clapped a hand against Jake's shoulder and walked out without touching his stall. 

A search through the training rooms and meeting areas yielded nothing. Sid was a ghost. He swung back by the locker room and saw Sid's stuff still there, even though the rest of the players were gone. He put his hands on his hips and turned in a perplexed circle. 

Geno paced out and down the hall, steps slowing as he reached the tunnel. He didn't want to go down it. He could hear the crew working out on the ice, melting and chipping it away. They wasted no time starting the long process of removing it when the season was over. It wouldn't be back for six months. The knowledge felt hollow and bitter, a bad taste on Geno's tongue. He didn't want to see the ice being destroyed, but he wasn't sure where else to look for Sid, so he dragged himself down the tunnel to stand in the shadows and hope the ice crew wouldn't notice him if he hunched his shoulders enough. 

Sid wasn't on the bench. It was a longshot, the last hope to find him before he gave up and left for the summer. Geno sighed. His eyes swung up and out over the seats to avoid what was happening to the ice. He caught sight of something up there, a figure in a black hoodie on the second level. 

It took a few minutes to climb all the stairs and walk the halls to get to Sid. When he finally reached the right place, he spied Sid leaning on a rail with his elbows, looking out over the receding ice surface. It was the same place where they'd shot tee shirts out of a cannon earlier in the year, a bright spot in his memory of the season. He vividly recalled laughing with Sid while they failed to stuff a tee shirt into the cannon so Sid could shoot some poor hapless soul down on the ice. He huffed quietly at the memory and approached to lean on the rail next to Sid. 

Sid didn't look at him. He just kept watching them wash away the ice. They were nearly to the Stanley Cup Playoffs decal, about to chip it up and pull it off. In a few hours, there wouldn't be anything left. He tried to read something in Sid's face but it was implacable, a mask. 

"Oh well. Not every year," Geno tried. Sid glanced at him but didn't react. Wrong tactic. "It's okay. We go to Worlds early, get really drunk and-"

"I'm not going to Worlds," Sid said flatly without looking up.

Well, that was a legitimate shock. Geno stood speechless. He'd just assumed it was inevitable that Sid would go. Hell, it was half the reason he jumped at the chance to join his country when invited.

"You're hurt?" Geno asked softly. God, it hadn't even occurred to him. Sid had been so healthy for so many years. Since he came back from a broken jaw, he'd been like Superman. Maybe Geno got used to it, stopped looking for problems in every misstep. Then again, maybe an injury explained a few things, a few on-ice errors he'd waived off and chalked up to exhaustion.

Sid shrugged. He wasn't _unhurt_. "Nothing major."

Geno crowded closer to him. Their shoulders touched. "Come anyways."

Sid swung a look at him, incredulous. 

"Not to play. Just hang out. Then come to Moscow with me, after."

Sid blinked. The surprise he expressed, however mild, brought some measure of relief. At least Geno had gotten a reaction, said something that got through. "Why would you want me to come to Moscow?"

"What you mean why?" What kind of question was that? Why wouldn't he want Sid to come to Moscow? It was the same reason they were so often at each other's houses. They enjoyed the company, the quiet companionship of old familiarity. Whatever else was going on between them, they were still friends. Was Sid feeling so shaky from this sweep he was questioning everything?

Some color splashed along the high ridges of Sid's cheekbones. "Probably shouldn't."

Geno deflated. The air rushed out of his lungs. "You say same last year," he grumbled.

"It was true then, too."

Geno scowled. He wanted to throw something down at the men washing away his ice. He wanted the past two weeks back, to get off his heels and do something against New York's defense. He wanted to go home. 

And he wanted Sid to go with him. 

He looked over at Sid. His eyes were locked back on the melting ice, but the color was still there in his cheeks, painting his skin pink. 

"Come anyways," Geno repeated softly. Sid looked at him with concern and fear and... Under that, hope. He was pretty sure it wasn't just wishful thinking that he saw hope in Sid's eyes. Geno nudged the back of his hand against Sid's. "Come with me."

"Why?"

"Because I will miss you." He would miss him again like he had last year, only even longer. Non-cup summers meandered along, boring and slow. Sometimes he liked that, but last year, there was always something missing. He found his heart tugging him back toward Pittsburgh, even though he knew if he returned, that missing piece wouldn't be filled. Sid would be in Nova Scotia or California or France or Romania, a short flight from Moscow but never coming to see him. 

Sid's hand moved hesitantly against his. His fingers curled over Geno's. Geno could hear him swallow. The pink was spreading down his neck. His heart was probably racing. Geno's certainly was. "Me too."

Geno licked his lips. Sid watched him do it. 

"If I come," Sid offered. Geno's heart soared just from that much. "If we go together, I think... Maybe we have a lot to talk about."

Oh, Sid wanted to talk. It was amazing, practically a miracle. Manic laughter bubbled up in Geno's chest as he thought back to all the times throughout the season he'd tried to get Sid to talk to him and been utterly shut down. _Now_ , they had something to talk about, a year later.

It had been after the Capitals series ended. He and Sid had been gutted by it, the end of their three-peat. Everybody was, Geno supposed, but they took it harder than most. It was the first time they'd lost a playoff series in so long it was like they didn't remember how to react, to move on. In their desolation, they'd turned to each other. 

That first week after losing, before either of them made plans to go anywhere, they were practically inseparable. They went to the gym a lot because Sid said the excess energy would only turn to anxiety, worry about what they could have done better. There was no turning back the clock, and a tired body makes a happy brain.

Geno had just smiled, shaken his head, and gotten dressed in shorts and a tee shirt to join him at the gym. There was no stopping the Sid train once it got going. He was fully aware of that much. 

He put up with it because Sid didn't make him do anything else healthy. He wanted a few weeks to shove chocolate in his mouth and drink too much wine before he started a protein-heavy routine to bulk up for summer. Sid acquiesced to getting takeout, ordered dessert every night, and made sure they always had a good bottle of red aerating by the time the food arrived. 

Eventually, the oddly mixed self-care routine worked. It brought them out of their shock to start making plans for the summer. Sid began to map his summer training, the nerd, and Geno less and less idly considered going to spectate at the FIFA World Cup until he finally pulled the trigger on it and bought the tickets. 

A little less than a year ago, on his last night in Pittsburgh, Geno and Sid drank together while watching a baseball game, snuggled in on Sid's couch like chickens seeking shelter from a storm. It was just like all the other times they'd comforted each other since the end of their playoff run until, out of nowhere, Sid had kissed him, brief and chaste, and then stared at him like he was a science experiment, waiting for him to react. 

It had seemed like a fine idea to pull Sid back in without discussing anything and keep kissing him until the baseball game ended. Before they went their separate ways that night, Sid had agreed to come to Moscow in the summer, and it all seemed, for a brief, shining moment, like something huge was happening. 

And then Sid never came. 

He got as far as Europe, even texted Geno to see when he'd be around, but ultimately returned to Canada one day out of the blue. His only explanation was a single text saying he didn't think it was a good idea to visit after all. 

Geno spent a while being angry and hurt and not talking to him, then flew back to Pittsburgh in the fall. The first day of camp, Sid smiled at him the same as always, wide and sincere, and then ducked every conversation that started to turn toward serious. Eventually, Geno gave up on trying to ask, figured Sid regretted kissing him and wanted to remain friends. He tried to pretend like it didn't break his heart, but it did. And here he was, opening himself up to it again. 

"I think you don't want to talk," Geno said carefully.

Sid breathed out and pulled his hand away. He looked so fucking _disappointed_. He nodded. "I'm honestly surprised you want anything to do with me."

"Stop," Geno said. He wasn't thinking about it when he grabbed Sid's hand to return it to his. Sid looked at him with wide eyes for a second before his face resolved into a shyly pleased grin. "Even if you don't want to kiss, always we are friends."

"I do," Sid said immediately. "I did then. I wanted to kiss you again. I wanted to come see you. I was going to and I... I freaked out, I guess. Where we were headed, it would have been a really big change for us, and I just didn't see a way forward."

The season was over, and they'd gone out with a whimper. To be honest, he had to admit they'd been lucky just to make the playoffs. In another division, they might not have. If Sid was worried about messing up the team, Geno didn't see how it could get much worse.

Geno squeezed his hand. "We need a big change, maybe."

Sid looked at him like a deer noticing an oncoming truck, but his hand stayed in Geno's. He nodded quickly. "Yeah. I think you're probably right."

Well, it only took him a year. If they worked out, Geno sincerely hoped every major relationship milestone didn't follow suit. He couldn't imagine the delay involved with deciding to get married or have children. 

And he, an idiot, would wait through it. 

"I'm sorry I didn't come last year," Sid said, a salve of soft Canadian vowels over the last burning wounds. Geno let his forgiveness pull a smile onto his mouth and leaned into Sid's shoulder. Nobody was around except the guys cleaning up the ice, and they weren't looking up. He'd checked. Most importantly, there were no cameras. Geno nudged in, giving Sid ample time to realize what he was doing and pull back. Instead, Sid closed the gap and kissed him. 

"Come with me," Geno said again, breathing Sid's air with him. 

"Okay."

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/getoffmyhead)


End file.
